The Mark
by Shalli
Summary: The gaining of the Mark - no one said it was going to be like this... (One shot - complete)


_Disclaimer: If I were JK and not me, I'd probably be a little more mentally stable. As things stand, I'm poor and crazy... whatcha gonna do?_

**The Mark**

It seemed very formal. And disturbingly non-magical. Hidden within the darkness of the hood he had been given, the latest recruit to the Death Eaters watched as everything was set up for the final act - the gaining of the Dark Mark.

Two Death Eaters, anonymous behind their masks, set up a table and chair. Another brought parchment, laying it with exactness on the table. A fourth Death Eater approached the Dark Lord and bowed low. After a moment he saw Lord Voldemort deign to notice the prostrated form before him. Holding his breath, wondering what fantastic magical instrument was about to be unleashed, he watched as Lord Voldemort reached deep into his robes and brought forth a quill and a bottle of ink.

His breath escaped in a slightly disappointed sigh. Was this the great defender of the true blood? Was this the leader of the pure-blood movement against the intrusion into the magical world by the filthy Mud-bloods? What, by Merlin's beard, did this all have to do with gaining the Dark Mark?

Almost, _almost_, he stalked off in disgust. There were two things that stopped him. One: the knowledge that he would never survive if he did so - and he had a healthy interest in keeping alive. Two: curiosity was definitely beginning to prickle. There had to be some point to all this and he had come too far to not finish what he had started.

The Death Eater had taken the quill and ink while he had indulged in inward contemplation. The ink had been placed on the top left-hand corner of the table; the Death Eater was standing nearby, holding the quill carefully. He wondered who this Death Eater was, what he looked like, what his face would reveal if the mask was removed. He wondered what it would be like to be one of them.

"Approach."

The voice was odd. Commanding, terrifying even, yet almost ridiculous in its sibilant quality.

"Yes, my Lord."

He approached the slight hillock which the Dark Lord was using as a vantage point.

* * *

He sat in the chair and looked at the parchment. It was not blank, as he had originally thought. The image, faintly printed in the centre of the paper, could hardly be mistaken. A skull grinned up at him; a snake protruding from between its lips is an eerie parody of a tongue. The Dark Mark, which had been seen in recent days almost daily in the papers, was unmistakable.

"The quill."

"Yes, my Lord."

He had completely missed the approach of the Death Eater who had been holding the quill. Fingers showing only the slightest hint of a shake, he reached out with his right hand and took the proffered plume, adjusting his grip until he was holding it in writing pose. A faint dread seemed to sink into his skin where it touched the quill, slowly spreading up through his body. It finally occurred to him that this quill could be no ordinary quill - that this task must be no ordinary task - as he had arrogantly been supposing. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a faint inscription shimmering along the bone, glittering haphazardly through the fletching, but disappearing completely from view when he tried to fix his eye upon it.

It seemed obvious what he had to do. Leaning forward and to the left, he awkwardly dipped the quill into the ink and moved it over the parchment. As he lowered his hand, intent on beginning the task of tracing the image, a hand came out of no-where and gripped him by the wrist. He looked up alarmed.

The Dark Lord was approaching. The Death Eater who was holding his wrist carefully extracted the quill from his grip and then stood quickly back.

"Crucio."

The pain that swept through him was excruciating. Unable to think, hardly able to act, he fell off the chair, knocking it over in the process and curled into a ball as tightly as he could. It seemed as though a lifetime passed before the pain let up. Slowly, shaking and panting from the pain, he stood up and righted the chair.

Lord Voldemort stood nearby, his wand now lowered at his side.

"I'm sorry, my Lord," he grovelled, although he was unsure what he had done wrong. "Let me have another chance, I will not let you down. I swear it on the purity of my family's blood."

* * *

The Death Eater placed the quill into his left hand and pushed him back down into the seat. He looked up, nervously seeking permission as he again leant forward - awkward this time due to his being right-handed - and dipped the quill once more, bringing it back out. The tip glistened blackly in the wand-lit night. He moved his hand back and after looking back up in trepidation, touched the pen to paper.

Nothing happened. If anything it seemed a disappointing anti-climax.

Not wanting a blob of ink to accumulate, he began to move the quill, following the shape on the parchment as closely as he was able.

He drew his arm back in shock as pain rushed into his arm. His right hand came over unconsciously to cover it, try vainly to stopper the pain. Among the onlookers a couple of quiet laughs were smothered, while the one he was beginning to consider his guard placed both hands on his shoulders, effectively holding him in his seat.

"Continue."

He could hardly not do so, yet the sensation when he continued... it was as if something sharp was digging into his forearm, burrowing under his skin. Gritting his teeth, and not daring to hurry in case he muddled it up because of his lack of expertise with his left hand, he continued, and so did the sensation.

That was not the only odd thing. When he finished the outline he noticed that instead of the black he had expected, a brown line followed the quill faithfully. It was as if the ink had been mixed with something, yet when he took the opportunity to take a hasty glance, the ink remained the same uniform black.

Putting the nib back to the page, he traced the details of the skull and snake, shuddering slightly as a thought began to take form in his mind. His eyes, like iron to a magnet, kept being drawn away from the parchment and to his forearm, shrouded by the black cloth of his long sleeve. Dark exultation began to flow through him, the pain feeding it, augmenting it until it became a source of pleasure.

He put even greater effort into the task he was performing, taking his time to make sure that the detail was exact, revelling in the sensation of becoming part of something great. Relishing the feeling of his link to his Lord finally gaining a shape, a reality.

Finally, the task was finished; he stood unhindered, and turned to return the quill to the Death Eater who had remained behind him. Then after seeking permission with his eyes, and the Dark Lord - _his_ Dark Lord - gave it with a dismissive nod, he rolled up his sleave.

Raw looking skin covered his forearm, but under it, unmistakable even in the dim light, the Dark Mark waited.

Waited until he needed to be called.

--------------------

_Shall I Shut Up Now?_

_A/N: I'm inclined to blame this one on the crazy laughing voice. This was just an idea that hopped on into my head and wouldn't leave me alone. Eventually I had to write it down to get it to stop popping up into my thoughts at inconvenient times. Rather darker than my other work, so I'd really like to know what people think._


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